Guinevere ignored the implied criticism. She knew that she ate more, especially more sweets, when Lancelot was gone. They filled an empty place in her, and Lancelot never smiled the less if Guinevere grew plumper.
Nevertheless, Guinevere wanted exercise, and she preferred that to be on horseback. She had been riding with Bors every day, and, much as she liked him, she was tired of his pious remarks. So she was not much grieved when he asked to be excused the next day to help his oldest son buy a horse. She decided not to ask any other warrior to accompany her.
Guinevere rose early and went to the stables. She smiled at the young stablehands on duty.
"Today I shall ride alone," she said.
They stared at her.
"Will you be safe, your highness?" one of them asked.
"I shall not go far." She smiled even more warmly. "And I shall be sure to praise you to the king. I think you also need a new roof."
"Thank you, highness," the men said. They beamed at her.
She rode off alone, though she knew she could not do it often. She hoped that Arthur would not hear about it.
In a meadow, she paused to watch two fawns that frolicked while their mother munched on tall grasses.
But the doe soon ran off and the fawns bounded after her.
Guinevere let her mare run, but even as she did, she heard another horse galloping. Turning her head slightly, she saw a warrior on a brown horse.
Guinevere shivered, and swerved to the right, directing her horse into the forest.
As before, the warrior did not follow her there.
Guinevere caught her breath, but she still shook. It must be the same warrior who had pursued her before – also when Lancelot was away on a journey. The man just wanted to frighten her, she hoped. But who would want to do that?
Her thoughts turned to Gawaine, who seemed to be her only enemy at Camelot. If she had really been pursued the day that Lancelot fell from her horse, that had been not many months after Guinevere had confronted Gawaine. The man couldn't be Gawaine himself, because the last time she had been pursued, Gawaine had been traveling with Lancelot. But Gawaine could easily have persuaded or paid some other man to follow her. True, she had never heard of Gawaine doing anything by stealth, but a man who could kill a girl must be capable of anything.
She couldn't tell anyone. There was no proof that the pursuer was not imaginary.
And if Arthur learned that she was riding alone, his solution would be to put a stop to it.
True, it was a great risk for a queen to ride alone, but she longed to do so once or twice a year. And the strange man had followed her two or three times, but done nothing more.
One evening when Lancelot and the boys returned, Aglovale had another guest, a beefy old man named Cadwy, who was introduced as Olwen's father. Olwen and Aglovale both smiled, but their eyes looked weary.
"I'm honored to meet the great Lancelot," Cadwy boomed. His voice and his breath showed signs of mead consumed. "Why can't you go out on quests as he does, Aglovale, instead of hanging around your home with your wife and children? Don't you have the courage to go out looking for fights?"
Aglovale sighed, as if he had already answered the question a dozen times that day. "I would rather be with my family."
"Aglovale was very brave in the war with the Saxons," Lancelot protested. "Surely that is more than enough fighting to last a lifetime."
"But you still fight," Cadwy insisted. "It is a great shame for a man to be so fond of sparring with his wife that he no longer wants to fight like a man."
"I don't know which is worse, your view of love or your view of fighting," Olwen told her father.
But Cadwy would not leave off. "If only Aglovale were as manly as Lancelot."
Olwen laughed, and the laughter spread to Aglovale and Lancelot. "Truly, I think Aglovale is a better father than a man like Lancelot would be," Olwen said.
"I agree," Lancelot added. She saw that she would never persuade Aglovale to go to Camelot. It was time for her to leave.
Lancelot came back full of stories about the wonders of Aglovale's children and full of praise of Aglovale.
"Imagine," she told Guinevere, "a man who is always teaching his children things and telling them stories. And when the children are not there, he speaks mostly about them."
Guinevere's brow creased. "And if you could find such a man, would you go off and have children?"
She did not look at Lancelot, but stared out of her window into the dark. Lancelot burst out laughing and grabbed one of Guinevere's clenched hands. "Why, I have never had such a thought in my life! Don't worry yourself." She pulled Guinevere to her and pressed her lips against Guinevere's.
Guinevere sighed and relaxed.
"But still it would be good to help orphan children, if only we could," Lancelot ventured, holding her tight. For she had begun to imagine what life might be like if she could have married Guinevere, though she tried to keep such thoughts out of her mind. How could they give up Camelot, the best and noblest place in the world? The land that embodied justice? The place where nearly all her friends lived?
One afternoon, after telling Arthur about some particularly fine horses the tax collectors had taken from a reluctant lord, Guinevere said, "I recall that poor mad Gryffyd has a daughter. His wife died in childbed during the war. I have sent to Dyfed for the girl to be raised as a fosterling here."
Arthur smiled, but did not put down the tablet on taxes that he had been scanning. "Very thoughtful of you. Perhaps the sight of her will rouse her father to his senses."
Guinevere nodded, though she thought that was unlikely.
Some weeks later, a girl of about ten years with flyaway brown hair was brought to Guinevere's room. "This is the Lord Gryffyd's daughter, Talwyn, Lady Guinevere," said a lady stern of voice and face. "I am Clarissa, daughter of Claudius, who traveled with her. Bow to the queen, child."
The girl's bow had a bounce to it, and her brown eyes looked up questioningly.
"That's not a proper bow!" the lady reprimanded her.
"The queen won't like you if you're so undisciplined."
"Oh, but I shall," Guinevere said, touching the girl's shoulder. "Thank you so much for bringing her here. Please leave us," she said with courtesy but little warmth, for what she had seen of the lady was enough to inspire dislike.
The lady gave Talwyn a look that was none too kind. "Mind the queen," she said sternly. She bowed far more deeply than necessary, and took her leave.
"She must have been awful to travel with," Guinevere said.
"She is awful." Talwyn nodded.
"Please sit down. Or would you rather look around the room first?"
"Could I look at the room? I never saw anything so pretty."
Guinevere showed her wall hangings, gowns, and jewels, then bade her sit down at the table. She sent Fencha to bring the child some wheaten bread and honey.
"The clothes and jewels are all very well," Guinevere told her, "but here are my true treasures." She indicated her scrolls and books. "Have you learned to read?"
Talwyn shook her head. "No, lady queen."
Guinevere was amused. "Lady Guinevere will do. We both know that I am queen, so we don't need to keep reminding ourselves of it. I shall teach you how to read."
The little brow wrinkled. "But, Lady Guinevere, everyone says that I am stupid and slow. I don't sew or spin at all well."
"Do they say that?" Guinevere frowned. "You don't seem stupid or slow to me. I don't sew or spin well, either, so perhaps they would say that I am stupid and slow as well."
The little mouth opened wide. "No one would say that, Lady Guinevere."
"Indeed not, even if I were. Do you like to sew or spin?"
The little head shook. "No, Lady Guinevere."
"Well, everyone must do some work, and you must do that, but I shall teach you other things as well."
Fencha appeared bearing the bread and honey.
"Now have some food, child," G
uinevere told her.
She watched intently while the girl ate. Her manners were none too dainty. Guinevere smiled at that.
When Talwyn finished, she licked the last of the honey from her lips and looked up.
"I'm a bad girl, Lady Guinevere," she confessed.
"How so? Why do you say that, child?" Guinevere felt as if she were falling under a spell that was not unlike falling in love.
"My mother died and my father is mad. Nurse said it's because I'm bad and unruly. What's mad, Lady Guinevere?"
Guinevere felt her blood race with anger, but she concealed it so the child would not think she was angry at her. "What dreadful things to tell you. Your mother died because she was trying to give birth to another child. Many women die in childbed."
"I know. I was there." The girl's voice trembled. "But Nurse said that if I had prayed better, she wouldn't have died."
"Nonsense, that had nothing to do with it." Guinevere, speaking in a voice of authority, pressed the girl's hand. "Why would God punish your mother because of a little girl's prayers? I saw my mother die in childbed, too, so I can understand how you feel. And your father was much grieved by fighting in the war and cannot find his way out of it. He cannot believe that the war has ended. Neither of these things has anything to do with you. None of it is your fault. Never listen to anyone who tells you such cruel lies."
Talwyn just looked up at her. The girl's wide brown eyes reminded Guinevere of Lancelot's, though they did not have the hint of sorrow that still lingered in her lover's eyes at times.
"Tell me if anyone here is cruel to you. I shall not allow it."
Guinevere rose. "I shall have Fencha show you to the room where the girls sleep. Is there anything else you want, Talwyn?"
The girl nodded. "I want to see my father."
Guinevere scrutinized the girl's face to see whether she could bear it. "So you shall. I'll take you to see him. But it will be difficult. He was so often attacked by Saxons that he tends to think that every man he sees is a Saxon, come again to attack, although the king has subdued all of them. Your father generally realizes that women are not Saxons, so I hope that he will recognize you, but I don't know whether he will. Try to be brave, because he has suffered a great deal." She put her hand on Talwyn's shoulder. The girl nodded solemnly.
Guinevere took Talwyn to the locked room where Gryffyd was kept. He had serving men – ones who passed the test of not looking like Saxons to him – attending him, so he looked presentable enough. They entered the room, which was small and dark and rather pungent.
Guinevere and Talwyn were not accompanied by guards because around Gryffyd it was safer not to be. Huw, the serving man who was his chief warder, let them in. Tending a madman was no great joy, Guinevere supposed.
"It's Queen Guinevere," Huw told Gryffyd in a voice that held a hint of anxiety.
Gryffyd liked Guinevere but was unpredictable.
He raised his weary face and moaned. "My poor queen, still a captive like me!"
"Yes, but I am well treated and fed well," she replied, thinking there was more truth to what she said than anyone might guess. "Do they still feed you well?"
He moaned again. "Oh, they feed me like a king, the devils, but a man wants more." She smiled in an attempt to warm him.
"You do have more. Your daughter is living with me now, and she cheers me greatly. She is safe and well, and wants to see you." She pulled the girl up beside her.
"Talwyn!" her father howled. "Better you should be dead than a captive of the foul Saxons. Where is my sword?" He thrashed out his arms, and Guinevere grabbed one of them. He ceased struggling.
"No, no, my good Gryffyd. We are well treated in this caer. No one will harm her. I give you my word. Guinevere's word."
He faltered. "Truly?"
"I'm safe, Da," Talwyn told him. "I just wanted to see you."
"My poor little girl." He reached out and patted her head. "But where's your mother? Did the Saxons...?"
"No, Da, she died in childbed. I saw her." Talwyn's voice quaked.
"In childbed, to be sure. My poor Gwen. You know that she was named like you, my lady," he said to Guinevere, lucidly enough. It was true; Guinevere had been his wife's name.
"My poor little girl. What can I do for you?" He lifted the little face and looked into it.
"I shall care for her myself, never fear. She'll grow to be a fine woman," Guinevere assured him.
"But the Saxons," he moaned. "But a captive."
"I swear that no Saxon will ever touch her," Guinevere replied. "She'll be no more a captive than any other woman. Less, if I can manage it."
"You are such a great queen that even the Saxons heed your word," Gryffyd said, kissing her hand.
"Be brave, my child," he told Talwyn. "Listen to the queen."
"Yes, Father," she promised solemnly.
"Rest you calm, Gryffyd," the queen said, and took the girl from the room.
When the door closed behind them, she pressed Talwyn into her arms. "You're a brave girl."
Talwyn wept on her shoulder.
Lancelot crossed Talwyn's path in a passageway when the girl was carrying some vellum to the queen. She was pleased that her dear Guinevere had a fosterling to care for. "It is well that Lady Guinevere is teaching you to read. Perhaps you'll be as clever as she is."
Talwyn grinned. Her hair was as unruly as usual. Lancelot smoothed it. "I'll never be that, my lord," the girl said. "I like the reading, but the Latin grammar makes little sense to me. It's so silly to say that things like tables and farms are male or female that I can never remember which is which."
Lancelot laughed louder than she usually did. "Yes, it can be hard to remember."
"I watch the boys in the courtyard with their wooden swords. They look to be having such fun. I wish I could have one." She looked up at Lancelot as if imploring her.
"Do you indeed?"
The next day, Lancelot appeared at the queen's room in the afternoon, an unusual hour for her, and through the commonly used door, not the hidden one. She bore a wooden practice sword.
"The young lady wants one. It can do no harm." Lancelot said, but her voice made it a question, addressed of course to Guinevere. Talwyn, who had been bending over a wax tablet, also turned to the queen.
Guinevere merely shrugged and said, "Why not, child? You can keep it in my room. But don't tell anyone."
Talwyn pressed her hand to her heart and swore that she would not.
Guinevere watched with pleasure while Lancelot and Talwyn, brandishing wooden swords, jumped around the room. Talwyn had been brought in after Lancelot so she would not see that Lancelot came through the hidden entrance. Fencha had cleared away as many things as she could. It was late, but Talwyn was allowed to stay up at times for these secret lessons.
"Have at you, wicked warrior," cried Talwyn, knocking her sword against the wooden one that Lancelot held.
"Do not scream," Guinevere warned her.
"Beware, Long-Haired Warrior, and watch your footwork. Watch your left, watch your left!" cried Lancelot, attacking on her right as soon as the girl turned to the left. "Don't trust your enemy!"
They knocked over a chair, but Guinevere only smiled.
Lancelot leapt up on the table to attack from above, eliciting delighted shrieks from Talwyn.
"Hush, children, you're too loud," Guinevere scolded them.
"Sorry, my lady. I can scarcely control myself when I face such a formidable foe," Lancelot said, jumping down from the table.
Talwyn's hair was one great tangle. She gasped for breath, and Fencha brought her water to drink. Lancelot and Guinevere exchanged a warm glance over the girl's head.
25 The Fathers
Arthur and Gawaine rode through the forest in early autumn, reminiscing about the details of past battles and laughing over old adventures with women. Sunlight dappled the dark forest and they were full of cheer.
Gawaine was glad to spend some time with his royal cousin. It wa
s rare that he could ride out alone with Arthur, as he had more often when they were young. He reached in his pack. "These are the finest of apples," he said. "I go to Avalon every year to pick them. It's sad to see the place overridden with monks and priests, but it still has the best fruit."
"You old pagan!" Arthur chuckled.
"Don't pretend you care," Gawaine teased him. "You would pray to Lugh or any other god for victory."
"I have no problem with the Christian God," Arthur said. "He's clearly stronger than the Saxon gods. Merlin did well to see that I was raised as a Christian."
Gawaine gave a fruit to Arthur, and kept one for himself.
They munched while they rode, savoring the tart, juicy apples.
In a glade, they came upon a plump old nun, who gave them a broad smile. "Greetings, King Arthur, greetings, Gawaine of the Matchless Strength," she said. "Stop a while and refresh yourselves at the brook."
They stopped and greeted her, and drank from the brook that raced through the woods, carrying small fish on great quests. Gawaine smiled at a frog that leapt away with a croak when it saw them.
"It is nearly harvest time," the old nun said. "What you have sowed you shall reap. Look for your children."
Arthur gave her a pitying look. "Your prophecies are wrong. I have none," he said. "More's the pity."
"Yes, you do," she told him, her gray eyes reproachful. Then she regarded Gawaine. "You have a daughter whom you must find someday."
Gawaine felt a momentary surge of joy, but then told himself it was foolish to believe the old woman's ranting. "I had a daughter who died the day she was born."
"You have another, who knows nothing about you. You should find her."
Perhaps the old nun was right. He had been with so many women. Of course there might be children, especially from the time when he was so young that he never tried to prevent them. Why did he think so little about that? Didn't he want to see such children, if they existed? Gawaine realized that indeed he did want to see any child of his.
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